


won't be the same dear (if you're not here with me)

by heartunsettledsoul



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Fake Dating, Mutual Pining, Oh no there's only one bed, getting festive up in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: She nods. Betty Cooper nods, agreeing to pretend-date him. An extremely normal favor between friends.Nerves shudder their way through him.In kind, Betty shivers, and it becomes clear they need to return inside.“Ready to enter the belly of the beast?” Jughead jokes.Her only response is to roll her eyes at him, which gives him a semblance of hope that they might retain normalcy in their friendship after this fiasco is over. Or rather, to use Betty’s own words, their relationship.or a miscommunication, a blizzard, and only one bed.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 174
Kudos: 298
Collections: 6th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArsenicPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArsenicPanda/gifts).



> arsenicpanda prompted "it's the holidays, Jughead and Betty are fake dating at the Joneses'" and it spiraled from there

* * *

“Are we feeling particularly morose about things today, Betty?” 

Jughead pops the trunk of Betty Cooper’s station wagon to hear her singing along to Blue Christmas and catches her blush in the rearview mirror before shutting the latch. His beat-up duffle bag looks even more shabby next to what he suspects are monogrammed suitcases tidily lined up next to an emergency roadside kit, two ice scrapers, one foldable shovel, a container of road salt, two gallons of antifreeze, and then a tote bag of shoes. She is nothing if not prepared. 

The bag of shoes is topped with a pair of sparkly high heels that Jughead finds himself wishing he’d seen her wear at the parties she dragged him to this semester. 

“Come on,” she had begged each and every Saturday, successful only three times in the four months they were on campus. “I promised Archie I wouldn’t let you become a hermit while he’s abroad and Coopers do not break promises.” 

If he had seen the long lines of her legs buckled into those absurd shoes, Jughead may have said yes more often. Try as he might not to be grouped among the many guys that ogle Betty on campus, Jughead is nothing if not a complete sucker for her. Whether she’s running at the gym, commanding attention in the newspaper office, or accepting donations for her sorority’s charity, Betty tends to have a trail of eyes behind her. 

She fends them off well: Chuck Clayton was threatened with a broken wrist if he touched her again at a frat party; Dilton Doiley was gently let down during a late-night layout meeting; Adam Chisholm was her spring formal date but moped much of the week after Betty told him they just weren’t a good match. 

It’s for this reason that Jughead lets himself fade to the background as a potential suitor. He adores Betty for her intelligent comments in literature classes, the wheedling in her voice when she asks him to do extra copyediting for the paper, and the way she chews on her pens when lost in thought in the library. Jughead also finds himself distracted by the shape of her lips on said pens and the lean shape of her legs, and how both might feel against his skin. But he would rather preserve their friendship than let it be destroyed by rejection, so he keeps his mouth shut and only sometimes grinds his teeth when other classmates hit on her. 

They had been fast friends their first semester at Greendale College, both slightly in over their heads in the requisite journalism class prior to joining the oh-so-cleverly named ‘Green and Silver.’ They bonded over AP standards and shitty assignment instructions, and then found themselves thrown together even more when Betty’s roommate Veronica began dating Archie. After a lifetime of hearing Archie’s women woes, Jughead was happy that attending college together meant he might expand his circle and find acquaintances who wouldn’t make him a third wheel. But when Betty was introduced as their fourth wheel, Jughead did not mind. 

Their own kind of relationship was forged during their friends’ tumultuous breakup, then reunion and consequent breakup, and then one more reunion prior to a long-distance relationship attempt while Archie attended a semester abroad in London this past fall. With only the paper to share this term, instead of their respective best friends, Jughead assumed he would not see much of Betty. She had proved him wrong on the first weekend when she knocked on the door of his ground floor single in the ‘disaster dorm’—thank you, housing lotto—and demanded he come to her sorority’s open house mixer. 

If he had offended her with his shocked response of, “Over my dead body am I going to a Greek party,” Betty didn’t let it show. And while she continued to invite him out for the remainder of the semester, there was never text asking about his plans on the nights of her sorority events. 

Likely for the best, Jughead thinks. But if those high heels make appearances at said sorority events, maybe he should give those parties a try. 

“It’s not _morose_ , Jug,” Betty says as she turns down the volume on Elvis’s crooning. “It is Christmas music, after all.” 

“Sure, sure,” Jughead grins. “ _I’ll be so blue thinking about you_ is the pinnacle of holiday cheer. I stand corrected.” 

She shoves him lightly before turning her attention to the GPS app on her phone, still humming along to the song. While she selects a route, Jughead fiddles with the seat adjustment until he can stretch out fully. His legs still feel cramped from the two hours spent on his American Lit final, wedged in an old-school desk in the basement classroom of the English building. 

Methodically, he extends his limbs and rotates different joints one at a time until there is some amount of relief. He’s just finished rolling his neck when he looks up to find Betty watching him. Her bottom lip is caught in her teeth and she goes pink again when he catches her gaze. 

She clears her throat. “You all done, or do you need to continue your chiropractics?” 

“Leave me alone and start driving,” he chides. And keeps stretching his neck, a smug albeit small smile on his face. Even with Archie abroad, his gym rat of a best friend had rubbed off on him, so Jughead still made efforts to run on the treadmill and do sit-ups a few times a week. 

His metabolism hasn’t caught up with his junk food habit yet, but Jughead figured some preventative measures couldn’t hurt. He certainly won’t complain if the muscles he’s developed have caught Betty’s eye. 

Or, equally likely, his neck-cracking has put her off and that’s why she stared. 

Either way, Betty is smiling when she backs the car out of the dorm parking lot and pulls onto the local highway. Jughead is free to appreciate the way her whole being is lighter than when he’d seen her the previous day, when there were still three finals left to complete between the two of them. 

They both received the short end of the stick in having exams scheduled for the last day of finals week; Jughead finished American Lit in the afternoon block and knew that Betty had her Shakespearean Tragedies exam in the morning, starting exactly one hour after her Feature Writing portfolio was due. Over dinner last night, Betty and Jughead were two of the dwindling population on campus, all of whom had their noses in textbooks or computer screens over the depressing ‘nobody is here but we have to feed the stragglers’ meal in the dining hall. 

Then, Betty’s shoulders were practically up to her ears and her usual ponytail had been victim to her nervous fidgeting, messy and twirled between the nails Jughead could tell she had been trying not to bite. It had taken all of his self-restraint to not cross over to her side of the booth and massage the stiffness from her neck. Now, the tension seems to have drained right out of her, but Jughead still wishes he could rub his thumb against the soft skin of her neck that peeks out above the tartan scarf bundled around her. 

“We match.” He gestures between the flannel shirt still around his waist and her scarf, giving his hands something to do that doesn’t involve touching her. 

“Oh, we do! It’s even a similar pattern!” 

Leave it to Betty to show genuine excitement for colors commonly found in plaids everywhere: they both have varying combinations of navy, green, and white. Betty’s scarf has flashes of a shiny-looking pink and its colors are fresh and bright, where Jughead’s is practically worn thin from years of washing. Even so, her energy is infectious and Jughead returns her grin. 

“Feels nice to be done, doesn’t?” 

Betty sighs. “I know everybody warns you that junior year is a bear, but this semester was _so_ rough. I am so happy to not have to work for a month.” 

Jughead nods his agreement, though his winter break will still involve work—just not schoolwork. As always, he’ll pick up whatever work Fred Andrews has on open construction projects, squirreling away as much cash as possible to bolster his savings and to replace the money spent on Christmas presents for his sister. But Betty doesn’t need to hear how he overcompensated for leaving JB to fend for herself while she and their mom move across town to live with their mother’s fiance by buying up half of her online shopping wishlist. 

Eighth grade is hard enough without switching schools and leaving behind the only house you’ve ever known, all while your dad goes into rehab again and your older brother is attending school in a different country. Jughead may have overdone it by declining his spot in the Prague program and spending a month’s circulation desk wages on wireless headphones, but he would rather roll into traffic than contribute to his sister being even a tenth as miserable as he had been in his adolescence. 

His driving companion notices the slight drop in his demeanor. She knows him well enough not just to attune to his mood, but also to not press on it. Instead, with a good natured roll of her eyes, she gives an exaggerated sigh. “If you _must,_ you can take over the aux cord.” 

“Best Christmas present ever, Betts.” 

  
  
  
  


Their mutual exhaustion becomes clear when Jughead queues up an episode of a true crime podcast they both enjoy. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Betty yawning halfway through the 90-minute recording. 

“Let’s stop for coffee up here.” 

Betty shoots him a grateful look before pulled off at a rest area. This time, Jughead is the one to appreciate his companion’s stretching, and he watches Betty arch her back like a cat while trying to not think inappropriate things about other reasons she might arch her back in his presence. 

He needs to get his shit under control. The post-exam exhaustion and proximity to Betty’s perfume is making Jughead feel like a true asshole for the ways his mind wanders. 

Half a cup of coffee and two bags of Doritos later, Jughead feels more in check of himself. Conversely, Betty seems to unravel with her latte and M&Ms. 

Jughead offers to take over driving, but she waves him off. “I’m just a little worried about the weather. My mother is texting nonstop about a snowstorm and I’ll never live it down if I get delayed after not listening to her.” 

No stranger to the bizarre intricacies of Betty’s family politics but unsure how to assuage her fears, Jughead does an awkward sort of cheersing motion with his coffee cup and then busies himself with the weather app on his phone instead of harping on such a weird choice in response. There is indeed a cold front moving eastward, set to greet them somewhere along the three hour drive west as they leave central New York for the western corner of the state. As has been habit since freshman spring, will Betty stop in Riverdale to drop Jughead off before continuing the final hour to her hometown of Riverside. 

Neither town borders a river, through some inexplicable naming conventions. 

He doesn’t wish to stress Betty out further, but even his own mother—notoriously hands-off in all manners of parenting—has sent him a text message informing him that there is a snowstorm warning for Riverdale, which can’t bode well. Jughead texts JB instead, citing their ETA and asking her to let him know if it starts snowing at home. 

JB answers with a string of overexcited emojis that he can’t make heads or tails of. Ever since he’d called her a couple weeks back to let her know the exact day he would be home, his sister has been bouncing off the walls. It will be nice to be welcomed home so thoroughly, but Jughead feels even more guilty about being away from home when she clearly needed additional support. 

“JB formally requests that you come inside to say hi when we get there,” Jughead tells Betty with a wry smile. 

Betty hums what he thinks is a yes, but it’s hard to tell through the clench of her teeth. The snow has started in earnest and there is still an hour to go before they hit the classic ‘Riverdale: the town with PEP!’ sign. 

Eventually, they skid rather then pull into the driveway of the new Jones family home (soon to be Jones-Kleats family home) and Betty throws the car into park. Jughead reaches across the console to reassuringly rub her hands where they are still white-knuckled on the steering wheel. 

“That was some true Mad Max driving, Betty. Sorry the weather sucked so hard.” 

She’s nodding and looking reproachfully at her cell phone where it rests in the air-vent holder. “I have to call my mom. There’s no way I can keep driving in this.” 

“Of course.” A small thrill runs through him. He is always happy to spend more time with Betty, but he does not know what he’s walking into with this new house and new joint family. Jughead can also tell that Betty is upset about the turn of events and, though she’ll be effortlessly polite, probably does not want to make small talk with his mom and soon-to-be-stepfather. “Do you want to stay out here and catch your breath for a bit? I’ll go in and let them know what’s going on.” 

Before he pauses to think about it, he pulls her to him in an embrace. It’s awkward as far as hugs go; Betty is twisted and blocked by the gear shift, Jughead stretched with one foot propping the door open and the rest of his body holding her to him. Somehow, it feels comfortable. Betty’s breathing evens out somewhat as she clutches at him and something flares up inside his heart. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. Not that his words would have much of an effect, knowing how Betty is hardwired for anxiety, especially when her mother is involved. 

Both bags slung over one shoulder, Jughead braces against the blow of snow and trudges through the unfamiliar yard. Everything feels a little odd, coming ‘home’ to a place he’s never lived. It dawns on him that he doesn’t even have a key to the front door but before there is time to plot how he might jimmy a window, the door flings open to reveal that JB is running full tilt at him. 

Tiny and teenaged as she may be—JB takes fully after their mother in size and spunk, where Jughead is doomed to share his name, build, and temper with their dad— his sister hits him with a loud _oomph_ and Jughead has to steady himself before they end up making snow angels. 

“Jesus, Jelly, give a guy a warning.” 

His sister, satisfied that she’s seen enough of him, cranes her neck around his body and he holds her back by the elbow. “Is that Betty in the car? She’s coming in, right?” 

“She’s calling her family, give her a minute.” 

Not one to be deterred, JB drags him through the door in an explosion of noise. “Mom! Jeff! Jug and Betty are here!” She disappears, presumably to collect the adults, and Jughead takes in the surroundings. 

Jeff’s house is a mansion compared to the dilapidated ranch house they lived in on the Southside up until this fall, which itself was miles beyond the trailer in Sunnyside Park that JB was born in and thankfully doesn’t remember. That privilege, of bare cabinets and empty liquor bottles and a barely functionable radiator, is only for Jughead. JB knows the Southside dirt to be sure, but she spent her formative years in the two bedroom house, the down payment for which came from selling FP’s bike after the divorce. Jeff lives—they _all_ live now—in a comfortable saltbox-style home with 90s-floral wallpaper and a hefty leather couch indicative of his extended bachelorhood. Some of Gladys’s art is on the walls now and Jughead imagines that JB’s room is painted either black or something neon and covered in band posters. 

“Jug, son!” Jughead cringes involuntarily and hears the wince in Jeff’s voice on the final syllable of the greeting; Jughead only knew Jeff as Coach Kleats at Riverdale High and he had graduated long before Gladys mentioned any boyfriend by name, so they are still tiptoeing their way into whatever their stepson-stepfather relationship may end up being. “Did you two make it through that snow okay?” 

“Yeah we’re alright, but I don’t think Betty’ll make it the rest of the way to Riverside like this. She’s in the car calling her mom now” 

“Not to worry, we made plenty for dinner so she can wait it out as long as she likes.” 

Jughead’s shoulders sag in relief at the normalcy of it all. Wherever in this house his mother is, her first impressions are a wildcard, and he is glad to settle things in a simple, perfunctory exchange. Somehow, he doesn’t think that conversation will go as well on Betty’s side, so at least she won’t need to witness him wade through awkwardness with Gladys. 

As though summoned, his mother appears at the stairs with JB in tow. “This is perfect, we can have some time to get to know this girlfriend you’ve told us nothing about.” 

Abbott and Costello, risen from the grave and dripping snow on the shag carpet, could not have scripted such a horrifying series of events. Gladys Jones says the word _girlfriend_ as though this is something Jughead should be aware of, and says it in reference to Betty, who walks through the front door—snow stuck to her eyelashes and highlighting that her eyes are puffy from crying—at the exact moment Jughead is saying, “My fucking _what_ now?” 

Betty blinks, the crystal flakes dislodging from her eyes and making Jughead a little weak in the knees at the absurd prospect of ever being in a situation where Betty might reciprocate his feelings. 

“Jug?” 

“Jughead, for Christ’s sake, don’t swear in front of your sister like that.” If not for his shock-induced lockjaw, Jughead might point out the hypocrisy of his mother taking the lord’s name in vain in response to his swearing. 

“Hi, Betty!” JB bounds down the stairs and hugs his thoroughly confused friend. 

Jeff shatters his momentary goodwill with Jughead by reaching out to shake Betty’s gloved hand. “Betty, welcome to Riverdale. I’m Jeff Kleats. We were so happy to hear Jughead was bringing home a girlfriend.” 

Betty recovers first, Jughead still attempting to pick up his jaw from the floor. “Hi Mr. Kleats, Ms. Jones. Thank you for letting me wait out the storm here, I really appreciate it.” 

There is a whirlwind of pleasantries that go in one ear and out the other while Jughead wracks his brain for anything he may have said to his mother to indicate he was dating someone, let alone that he was dating the girl he’s been friends with for all of college, who drives him home every break, who he’s half in love with.

What on _earth._

“Jug?” Betty calls his name over something JB is chattering on about. “We were going to top off the antifreeze in my car when we stopped anyway, can you come out and give me a hand?” 

The door barely shuts behind them before Jughead practically trips over himself apologizing. “Betty, I _swear_ I do not know where they got the idea—” 

“Jughead, breathe.” Betty arches an eyebrow at him, which is better than the slap he expected for insinuating that they were together. _Together_ together. His mind spins with the daydream of a life where they are in a relationship and this trip home with his girlfriend Betty Cooper could have been a reality. He shakes his head to clear it and focus on what Betty is saying. “Trust me, the look on your face was a dead giveaway that you had no idea what they meant either.” 

She trudges through the snow, back toward the station wagon where Jughead sees she does in fact mean to refill the antifreeze. Rushing forward to pop the hood for her, he keeps rambling. 

“Even so, this is obviously the last thing you want to deal with after finals and driving through a snowstorm and if I had _any_ idea they thought we were—” Jughead chokes a little “—dating, I would not have let you get ambushed like that.” He secures the arm to keep the hood up and accepts the container of bright blue liquid from her. “I’ll figure out some way to set the story straight before dinner, I guess.” 

“Jug, _no.”_ He startles then swears, splashing neon onto the snow by his feet. “It’ll be so awkward.” 

“More awkward than fielding questions about our nonexistent relationship?” 

Betty kicks at the snow and Jughead gets the feeling he did something wrong in saying that. “I mean we _are_ friends, we do have a relationship to talk about, Jug. But you’re probably right.” 

Snow dances across the beams of light coming from the front walk and the car headlights. The moment is kind of beautiful, Jughead thinks, if not for the discomfort of the conversation; _Betty_ is beautiful, with her eyes sparkling in the dim evening light that casts a halo around her. She’s chewing on her bottom lip and Jughead hates that he’s the source of her stress. 

This is the last thing he should be inflicting on someone he already has unrequited feelings for—

“Oh, shit.” Clarity hits him with force. “It was JB, it must have been. Once you and I figured out our schedule and knew we’d leave campus today, I called to let her know. It was the day that we had the crazy windstorm and I bet it was totally garbled when I said ‘my friend Betty’ and she thought I said ‘girlfriend.’” 

_And,_ Jughead doesn’t say, _I sound like a dopey idiot when I talk about you because I have such an unbearable crush on you._

It isn’t any wonder why JB leapt to conclusions. 

In theory, this makes untangling the truth easier. But Jughead knows his sister has been acting out a lot this year in school and at home, and adding this miscommunication to the pile—ostensibly a huge lie about people’s personal lives—would only make this worse. 

Betty watches him as he processes, letting this news hang between them. “Does that mean we are or aren’t lying our way through dinner?” 

God help him, it means they’re lying their way through dinner.

“I hate to ask you, but could you just play along for a little bit while you’re here? JB had such a shit year and I’m worried that Gladys will flip her lid if she thinks JB made up a huge lie. I’d really rather not kill Christmas within twenty minutes of coming home to a house I’ve never lived in.” 

She nods. Betty Cooper nods, agreeing to pretend-date him. An extremely normal favor between friends. 

Nerves shudder their way through him. 

In kind, Betty shivers, and it becomes clear they need to return inside. 

“Ready to enter the belly of the beast?” Jughead jokes. 

Her only response is to roll her eyes at him, which gives him a semblance of hope that they might retain normalcy in their friendship after this fiasco is over. Or rather, to use Betty’s own words, their _relationship._

“It’s looking nasty out there kids,” Gladys says from the foyer when they re-enter with a gust of wind. Jughead wants to toss a sarcastic _no shit, Sherlock_ at her but bites his tongue for Betty’s and JB’s sake. He regrets his silence when she continues. “Betty, honey, I don’t think it’s safe for you to drive at all tonight, so you may as well stay overnight. Jug, it’s a good thing we bought new furniture when we moved in. Your room has a full bed now, so you two can sleep together. But only _sleeping,_ the walls are thin.” 

Gladys winks and sips her wine, while Betty erupts into a hacking cough. 

Looking back through the glass panes in the fancy front door, Jughead wonders if he should take his chances against the blizzard. 

“Come on,” Betty tugs him gently toward the kitchen. “No turning back now.” 

.

.

.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> predictably, the chapter length has increased because, quoth iconicponytail, "it's not the writing process unless it takes 12,000 times longer than you think it will."

* * *

This is a fever dream. Jughead knows it must be, since there is no other way that he would be sitting at a dining room table in a house with more than one bathroom, eating dinner with a near-complete family, and with Betty Cooper resting her hand on his thigh. 

By some miracle, they make it through dinner without incident. Gladys only makes three vaguely suggestive remarks and Jughead counts that as a win. JB excitedly asks Betty about her journalism classes and Jeff earns some of his brownie points back by showing genuine interest in both her answers and Jughead’s own comments about their work on the school paper.

“Jug, let’s clear the dishes for your paren—um, for you, Ms. Jones and Mr. Kleats.” 

Bless her for acknowledging his discomfort in referring to Jeff as a parent, Jughead thinks. Her face reddens at the stumble but Jughead murmurs for her not to worry as they stack dishes and move through to the kitchen. 

“Thanks.” He finds himself wanting to soothe her of the embarrassment, but she’s recovered quickly enough to chastise him once they are alone and out of earshot. 

“Jughead, you have to help me out if I’m going to _play along.”_ He cringes a little to hear his request mirrored back at him. “Which means you can’t look like you’re having an aneurysm whenever I touch you.”

There’s a choking sort of noise trying to break free from his esophagus. 

Betty takes dishes out of his frozen hands and scrapes them clean over a trash can she’s found with very little trouble. It will probably take Jughead the entire month at home to locate anything with ease. 

“Also…” She trails off and he tries to dislodge the ball of nerves from his throat. 

“What?” 

There’s a shyness coloring her voice when she continues and it makes him painfully aware of what he’s asked of her today. “It might help if you, like, touched me back. Or kissed me on the cheek. Or… something like that, I don’t know.” 

The ghost of her hand on his thigh and the verbal reminder of it is enough for his brain to short circuit, let alone this command to touch her back. She has a point, Jughead knows that his flinching had raised eyebrows during dinner that were assuaged only by Betty referring to him as ‘Juggie’ and her two ( _two)_ uses of ‘honey.’ He thinks he can manage a couple pet name drops of his own, but the idea of being allowed to touch her in more than a friendly manner, hell being asked to touch her in a decidedly non-platonic way, is a lot. There’s a line that Jughead toes, one that he has acquired some amount of grace while tightrope-walking it for two and a half years, and that line is to never do anything that makes Betty feel pressured to reciprocate. 

This makes the line somewhat of a moving target, but the general rule of thumb is this: Jughead does not touch her, not unless Betty initiates it. 

Surely her _telling_ him to touch her is an initiating move of sorts, but the idea of placing his own palm on her thigh under the dinner table alarms him. Jughead likes to think he has a grasp on his emotions and can keep himself under control fairly well—he is not a complete neanderthal that uses ‘I couldn’t help myself’ as an excuse—but there is a legitimate concern that if he crosses this line, he may never go back. 

It’s stupid, idiotic really, to have let this go so far. He should have corrected Gladys right away, shouldn’t have let Betty save the moment while he stumbled over words, should not have asked this favor of her when it can so easily get out of hand. 

And it is going to get out of hand, there’s no way it won’t. Not when the girl Jughead has spent _two years_ pining over is play-acting as his girlfriend. 

Not when they’re going to be sharing a room overnight. 

He would be lying to say he’s never thought about Betty Cooper tangled in his bedsheets, but ideally that situation arises out of a mutual decision—desire, even—and with both of them in his bed. Which he won’t be tonight, not if he wants to reach the other side of this with any shred of his dignity left. He will wrestle his emotions into submission while sleeping on the floor. 

His gaze refocuses to find Betty watching him, cheeks flamed with embarrassment and looking a little like how he feels: like she’s about to bolt. 

Taking stock of the situation, he doesn’t blame her. She has essentially asked him to show her a modicum of physical affection and his only response is to stare blankly at her, likely with panic clear on his face. 

“Yeah, yes, of course,” he rushes to answer. “I—uh, I can do that. For sure. Um—” He’s scrambling for something to say or do that might indicate how _entirely on board_ he is for being physically affectionate with her. They’re both holding dirty dishes, though, not exactly peak romance. 

Still a little frantic, Jughead puts down his armful of plates with enough force that they rattle loudly and then takes Betty’s from her and does the same. 

“C’mere.” He’s softer now, though no less jumpy. Betty takes his outstretched hand and he tugs her toward him, feeling his heart rate settle some at the warmth of her drawing near her. This is by no means the first time they have hugged, but it’s the first time that it feels so significant. He wraps her in a hug and instinct then drives him to plant a kiss lightly on the crown of her head. 

Betty melts into him and Jughead could live in this moment forever. 

“How’s this?” 

“Good, really good.” Her voice is muffled until she pulls back some to look at him. “You give great hugs, Juggie.” 

“Happy to oblige, Betts.” 

“Kids!” Gladys calls out from the other room and Jughead is abruptly reminded of where they are. “Hope you’re behaving in there!” 

Where on earth Gladys got the impression that Jughead might be such a lothario that he would fool around with a hypothetical girlfriend in the middle of the kitchen with his family mere feet away, he does not know. There’s a more than decent chance she is projecting her own romantic history—or the practices of her ex-husband—onto her son which makes Jughead want to vomit. 

Betty giggles from where her head is still mostly tucked into his grasp. 

“I’m glad _you_ find this amusing, seeing as you’re the one I am supposedly defiling in here.” 

“I guess it’s different with sons,” Betty muses as she slowly, painfully, extricates herself from his hold to return to the sink. “Because when Polly brought Jason home for the first time, my mother was in complete ‘leave room for the Holy Spirit’ mode.” 

He snorts. “No, I think this might be a ‘it’s different with the Joneses’ thing. My mom is ...well, you’ve gotten the crash course. Not that I’ve ever brought a girl home to experience this before, but she’s a constant wildcard, so I am not surprised that this is the tactic she’s chosen.” 

“You’ve never brought anybody home before?” 

Over the clanking of the dishes and the running of the faucet, it’s almost hard to hear Betty. Jughead looks up sharply, surprised that this is the line of questioning she’s chosen. “You know as well as anyone that I haven’t dated anyone at school.” 

“Right. I just, well I don’t know, not even in high school?” 

“It may be hard to believe, Betts, but I was even weirder in high school than I am now. If you think I’m undateable at this level, it was infinitely worse when I was sixteen and aspiring to be the next Bret Easton Ellis.” 

Her next words are a whisper, barely audible, that has Jughead’s stomach bottoming out. “I don’t think you’re undateable, Jug.” 

The desire to pull her back into his grasp is so strong that Jughead busies his hands with more dishes. He places himself to dry after Betty washes and when she bumps her hip lightly against his with a soft smile, his own grin is too strong to stifle. 

  
  
  
  


Jughead can’t believe his ears when his mother suggests they all play a board game after dessert—as though a formal dessert is something also completely normal for them—nor his eyes when they are several rounds into Scrabble. Jeff doesn’t partake, choosing instead to watch something sports-related on the tv, but his knees serve as Gladys’s backrest and he occasionally rubs a hand on her shoulder. 

It is so foreign to Jughead to see a functional family dynamic; by their standards, it is positively Rockwellian, though he knows that title best suits Betty’s own family. She seems at peace with this sort of activity, whereas she needs to keep nudging Jughead when it’s his turn because he is so caught up in thinking about how odd this all feels. 

This, at least, is his excuse for trailing so far behind in points from Betty and JB. 

Gladys is pretty terrible at the game but seems to be enjoying herself—and has thankfully refrained from any more innuendo. She may have been inconsistent in her mothering over the years, and she and Jughead butted heads every step of the way, but he can’t deny that it is nice to see her so happy. Even JB, who Jughead knows from many text messages and grumpy phone calls has not been in love with this new living situation, seems to be in a good mood about all of this. 

That may have something to do with Betty—the source of Jughead’s current positivity as well—whom JB is as enamored with as he is, though in a decidedly different manner. 

Once Betty hits a triple word score on ‘gnash,’ building from JB’s ‘pink,’ Gladys goodnaturedly knocks her letter rack over in defeat. Jughead merely pencils in her score and beams with pride, as though there is something to gain from his pretend-girlfriend being good at Scrabble. 

(Pretend-girlfriend she may be, Jughead plays his part a little better now and stamps a congratulatory kiss to her cheek. He likes to think the color high on her cheeks has somewhat more to do with this, and not with the generous pour of wine Gladys gave her. The sparkle in her eyes seems more intense after his whispered “You’re kicking my ass,” than it does after a few sips of wine, anyhow.) 

JB stoops to stealing tiles off his rack like when they were kids after he lays down ‘za’ in the corner of two As and manages double letter points to boot. “Knock it off, twerp.” 

“Make me, kid Kerouac.” 

That sets Betty into uncontrollable giggles, “Oh my god, that is so spot on!” 

Jughead tugs on her ponytail in retaliation, which results in her falling a little bit into his lap, and _god_ the world could end right now with Betty Cooper smiling up at him and would die a happy man. She stays there while her laughter abates, head resting against his criss-crossed legs and blinking up at him. 

The urge to kiss her overwhelms him. If not for their audience and for not wanting their first kiss to happen under false pretense, he would. 

With a few rapid blinks, Betty seems to collect herself. “I’m kind of tired,” she murmurs, sitting up. “I may go up to bed if you don’t mind.” 

From where they lounge on the couch, Jeff and Gladys tell her not to worry and that there’s extra towels in the hall closet if she wants to shower, and Betty untangles her limbs to get up. Unsure if she is looking for time alone, Jughead squeezes her hand. “I’ll be up in a few?” 

She nods, and he doesn’t see any outward signs of stress or of her being upset, so he tries to take it at face value. They both had a long day and her exam was much earlier than his, and Jughead is starting to feel the exhaustion settle over him. 

“You’ve got a good one, kid.” Gladys tells him this before Betty is out of earshot and Jughead grimaces, hoping the slowing of her steps on the stairs is only in his imagination. 

“Leave it be, Mom, please.” On a good day, Jughead never wants anybody digging into his personal life; it’s one of the reasons his friendship with Archie works so well, because Archie loves to talk and Jughead is more than happy to listen if it means he doesn’t have to share anything himself. The last thing he wants is for his mother to pry about his relationship—fake, friendly, or otherwise—with Betty. 

“I will, I will. Just saying she’s a great girl, you seem happy.” 

“Juggie’s in _looooove,_ ” JB sing-songs. Jughead kicks her in the shin under the coffee table. 

Gladys shrugs before continuing, “And she looks at you like you hung the moon.” 

Jughead’s imagination has to be playing tricks on him: the paused steps resume at a quicker pace, before disappearing altogether. 

“God knows what she sees in you,” JB snorts. 

_Yeah,_ Jughead wants to say. _Not sure what she’d see either._

  
  
  


There is a heavy silence weighing down the mood in Jughead’s new bedroom. Betty sits on the new double bed that is barely covered by the worn out quilt from his childhood bed, typing furiously on her phone with a scowl on her face. 

Surely his mother has misread the situation, or Betty is a phenomenal actress, because her expression is far from happy, let alone anywhere close to looking at Jughead like he’s hung the moon. 

(What exactly would that expression look like, he wants to know. Could it be possible that Betty has looked at him like that in other situations? If he didn’t catch it while she was sitting next to him with his family all around him, are there other times he has been oblivious to her reception of him?) 

“Everything okay?” 

With a few blinks, her scowl is washed with tears and Jughead forgets his insecurities just long enough to close the distance between them and hug her again. 

Before the screen on her phone dims, he sees an open message thread with ‘Mom/Alice’ where a series of angry text blocks are coming in with rapid intensity, and Jughead wants to launch the phone into a snowbank for her. His own mother may know how to fight dirty with the best of them, but everything he’s heard from in vague terms from Betty (and in more direct, curse-laden words from Archie, via Veronica) tells him that Alice Cooper is the queen of psychological warfare. 

“My mom is pissed that I’m not home, that’s all.” Her nonchalance is ruined by the damp spot on his shirt from her tears and the hiccupping sobs before and after she speaks, but Jughead doesn’t draw attention to the fib. 

“We’re both batting a thousand in the frustrating parent department tonight,” Jughead says ruefully. Betty’s next hiccup is combined with a slight laugh and Jughead once again prides himself on being able to cheer her up. 

“Your mom is fine, Jug. She’s…”

“A bit much?” Jughead finishes for her and she nods, chewing on her lip to suppress a sheepish expression. “Yeah, Gladys Jones has never been one for subtlety. Jeff has mellowed her out a ton, though.” 

“I’m surprised she kept her married name, I remember you telling me that your dad isn’t in the picture.” 

Jughead actually cannot remember the last time he spoke about FP. For as much as his dad is a sore subject, he’s touched that Betty remembers details about his family from however long ago they once talked about it. 

“Marginally in the picture,” he amends. “My dad was never a bad guy, per se, more of a walking disaster. Inconsistency and a penchant for cheap liquor aren’t enviable qualities for a spouse or a parent. I think my mom wanted to at least give us the consistency in a last name once they split. Truth be told, I think they get along better as exes than they ever did together.” 

Jughead heaves a sigh and Betty looks up at him. There’s such understanding and comfort in her eyes that he almost feels compelled to tell her more. Betty has that effect on people—you can’t help but trust her implicitly with whatever secrets or demons you may hold. “He’s, uh, he’s not great lately but he went into rehab a few months back after a DWI. He called on Thanksgiving and seemed to be doing better.” 

Where they are still loosely embraced, Betty squeezes back tightly and within the hug, Jughead rests his chin on her head. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all of that, Jug.” 

He hums in acknowledgement, distinctly aware of how much he has overshared. “And I’m sorry you’re being blamed for the weather.” 

“It’s a very on-brand move for my mom. She is melting down like I’m ruining Christmas by not being home for every single forced family fun activity, but my sister and her husband and the twins won’t even get there until tomorrow.” Betty continues to talk while she gets up and rummages through one of her bags. “I would put money on it that she’s only mad because she loses a night to chastise me for—” She straightens up and starts counting off on her fingers, while Jughead tries to concentrate on her voice, and not on what look to be a very short pair of pajama shorts in her other hand. “—one, for not having high enough grades; two, for not having found my future husband by freshman year like Polly did; and three, the perennial classic, choosing Greendale instead of an Ivy.” 

Betty rolls her eyes. Jughead notices that the shorts are printed with tiny penguins. 

“Anyway, I probably look like a racoon,” Betty says, self-consciously rubbing swiping under one eye. “So I’m going to wash my face and then get ready to pass out.” 

As though it is a normal thing to say and not something that should be kept to himself, Jughead tells her, “It’s okay, you make a beautiful racoon, Betts.” 

Her blush returns. 

Jughead spends the first few minutes of Betty’s time in the bathroom lightly knocking his head against the wall in frustration, before staring at the bed to determine how he could best fashion a floor bed for himself. 

Betty returns, racoon-free and wearing the penguin shorts—he now sees the penguins have santa hats—and he mumbles as much to her when she asks what he’s doing. 

“ _Jug.”_ Her voice is so firm it breaks him entirely out of his reverie. “I’m not making you sleep on the floor.” Some firmness gives way to a barely-perceptible waver when she continues. “It’s one night, we can share. Besides, what if someone comes in to wake us up tomorrow morning and see you on the floor? Then this whole thing was a bust.” 

Jughead decides against commenting that every other member in this house assumes the two of them will be having covert sex in that very bed, and thus would not dare to open the door unannounced. Her logic, otherwise, is solid. 

Still, he lets her get into the bed first to get comfortable—and for him to see how close to the edge she’s planning to stay while they share. The answer is that Betty is nowhere near the far left of the bed, practically in the center, and Jughead excuses himself to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face in preparation for sharing such close quarters with her overnight. 

When he returns, Betty has shut off the lights and Jughead’s movements to get into bed are stilted, using as much precision as possible to not touch her. He needn’t have bothered because the moment he positions himself straight-limbed and facing the ceiling, Betty tugs him toward the center with both hands on his elbow. 

“What are you doing, it’s freezing. Sharing body heat is a survival tactic for a reason, Juggie.” 

_Yes, Betty, but this is a survival tactic of a different kind._

“I run hot. And you’re the one wearing shorts in the middle of December while it’s blizzarding out.” 

She sounds petulant when she answers. “They’re _festive_. And all my warmer stuff is in my other bags in the car. These were what I slept in last night so I just shoved them in my backpack this morning.” 

Jughead can’t find it in himself to be sarcastic when Betty winds her legs between his and cuddles in closer. He flinches at the cold of her feet on his ankles and can feel her shrink away almost immediately. Before she can utter the dozens of apologies he knows are on the tip of her tongue, lest she think he is repulsed by the idea of holding her so close, Jughead holds her in place and shushes her. “Your toes were cold, that’s all.” He swallows the lump in his throat but doesn’t quite succeed and his next words come out in a choked sort of whisper. “I’m okay with this if you are.” 

He feels her nod against him, ponytail ends brushing his hand where he’s practically clutching her to his chest. “More than okay,” she whispers back. 

.

.

.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

By the time Jughead wakes up the morning of December 23rd, the line he has so carefully danced around for two years is completely obliterated: he is sprawled out across the bed—his usual sleeping position, though expanded with the largest bed he’s ever slept in before—except his left arm curls around Betty Cooper where she is cuddled up against his side and using his chest as a pillow. 

Her breathing sounds almost _too_ even, like she’s noticed he is awake and is pretending to be asleep herself. 

Which means that— 

“Betts,” he murmurs, cautious of speaking too loudly in case she really is sleeping.

“Hm?” She stirs and blinks up at him, awake but with a degree of fogginess in her eyes. 

Deep in his chest, Jughead feels an ache for what could be; a future of waking up to Betty in his arms feels so tangible in this moment that he is nearly willing to sink into the bliss, no matter if she isn’t fully aware of its implications. 

“You’re, um—” 

The fog dissipates, replaced with a frown as she shifts uncomfortably. “Do you want me to move?” 

“ _No_ ,” his whisper is so vehement, it startles both of them. Jughead takes a steadying breath before continuing. “No, not—not if you don’t want to.” 

Her response is simple: “I don’t want to.” 

What on _earth_ is going on. 

Keenly aware of the bubble he is about to burst, Jughead asks her as much. 

“Juggie,” her voice is soft, as soft as her skin under his embrace and her hair against the fabric of his shirt. “I— this is, um...” 

Rarely, if ever, has Jughead ever seen her at a loss for words. Rarely has he ever been rendered speechless either, but if she is about to say what he thinks she is, then his ability to form coherent thoughts is going to take an even steeper nosedive. 

She stops speaking altogether, as though collecting her thoughts and then thinking better of it. His heart sinks. 

Then his heart pounds right out of his chest as she moves, first to press her lips to his chest and the heat of her mouth even through his shirt is life-altering. Her next movement puts her eyes level with his and Jughead sees something reflected in them that might be what his mother meant last night. 

_I’ll lasso you the moon,_ he thinks—nearly speaks aloud. 

The green in her eyes shines in the early morning light, mesmerizing him as her gaze flits down to his lips. His jaw is open in shock, so he can’t be sure of how receptive he looks, but _god does he feel it._ Slowly, tantalizingly, Jughead lets himself look to where her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, a little red under the pressure, and he wants to free it and soothe it with his tongue. 

“Betts.” He breathes out her name, an unspoken question he doesn’t dare ask. She gives him the answer regardless, the tiniest of nods, and they’re inching closer, her mouth is a hair’s breadth away from his and Jughead is dizzy, giddy, losing his goddamn mind and—

A shrill ring bursts the moment like a shot, Betty practically flying away from him in surprise. He flinches, the noise is too startling not to, but everything feels on a delay, like time is moving faster than the rest of him. 

Betty scrambles, reaching down to the floor from her side of the bed and pulling up her phone. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. He thinks there might be tears in her eyes, but it is likely his imagination. “It’s—I—I only have a ringer on for my mom.” 

He might nod, he might not; he still cannot get a grip on what is happening. Betty is speaking in rushed whispers. 

Jughead remains flopped on the bed, looking up to the ceiling with its clean, fresh paint and no water stains from a leaky roof. Yet again, this feels like some kind of alternate universe. 

“Yeah, mom, I know. Yes, I’ll let you know when we dig my car out.” Betty sounds exasperated, but after a moment’s pause, her voice is quieter, more patient. “I know, I miss you too, Mom. I love you, talk soon.” 

She taps her phone screen to end the call and gingerly places it back on the ground. When she turns back to him, Jughead can’t bear to look at her when she inevitably explains away what nearly happened. 

_I was caught up in the moment; I don’t think I feel that way about you; we’re just pretending, right?_

Sighing, Jughead presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t want to hear it, can’t handle the crushing weight of this on his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again. What for, he’s not sure. 

He presses his palms harder, until brightly colored stars dance across the dark and reappear on the ceiling when he removes his hands and blinks away frustrated tears. 

“Coffee?” He injects a false cheeriness into his voice, a pretense that he knows she sees right through. “I think I hear someone downstairs, I can get a pot going if there’s not one already. Give you some time to get ready.” 

“Oh, okay.” Betty’s voice is so quiet, it’s barely audible. He thinks he could sink in the pillow-topped mattress and fall right through the floor, down through the family-friendly ground floor, and into the basement. Or even further, into the dark soil beneath the house. Let the worms take him. 

Anywhere dark, really, would be fine: anywhere without the crestfallen look on Betty’s face, without sparkling green eyes, or messy blonde hair. 

  
  
  
  


As it turns out, Jeff is the one in the kitchen, for which Jughead is grateful. He doesn’t think he could handle another off-kilter comment from Gladys without combusting. 

“There’s coffee brewing,” his near-stepdad informs him. “I started shoveling the driveway a bit and cleared off Betty’s car for her.” 

Gratitude floods through him. There is so much emotion in Jughead’s body that he can’t figure out what to do with it all. “Thanks, Jeff.” It feels insufficient; even more so when Jeff grins and sets out a series of mugs by the coffee pot, five in total. 

He stares at the machine as the coffee percolates and tries to make any kind of sense of the past 18 hours. There simply is no logic to any of it. 

Footsteps fall on the stairs and Jughead is only dimly aware that Jeff has turned on Christmas music; as though mocking him, Elvis is once again waxing melancholic about the holidays without his sweetheart. 

JB appears in the kitchen, bleary-eyed, but she perks up at the sight of him. For the first time since arriving in Riverdale and jumping on this train of chaos, Jughead finds himself solely focused on his sister. It’s a relief to not think about his disastrous life choices, even though he has half a mind to run back upstairs, press Betty into the pillows, and kiss her senseless. 

“Jelly, tell me about school and everything! You had that big history test last time we talked, how did it go?” 

She slouches into a chair at the table and glares at him. “When did you become a morning person?” 

_Since I woke up to the girl of my dreams in my bed and nearly kissed her._ At this rate, Jughead might never need coffee again. 

From across the table, Jeff laughs. “She needs at least half an hour and one cup of coffee before you talk to her in the mornings. Takes after your mother that way.” 

Or after their dad on a hangover morning, but Jughead keeps his mouth shut. 

“What are you even doing up so early? You’re on break!” 

JB mumbles into her arms, currently her pillow against the tabletop. “Heard you get up and wanted to see Betty before she goes home.” 

Jughead knows the feeling. 

The girl in question joins them when Jughead is three-quarters through his first cup of coffee and only one minute after he has managed to stop replaying their moment on a loop in his head. She looks uncharacteristically shy when taking the mug Jeff offers her and regards the open seats at the table as though preparing for battle. After six stirs of her dash of cream, Betty slides into the chair to Jughead’s right and maintains firm eye contact with the swirl of her coffee. 

He longs for her hands on him again and stares into his own coffee looking for answers. They don’t come. 

“I should go dig my car out,” Betty announces to the room at large. 

“Oh, don’t worry Betty, I did that when I cleared the front walk.” 

“Oh!” Betty looks surprised at Jeff’s thoughtfulness, “Thank you so much.” 

“Will you stay for breakfast? We have bagels and eggs and half the cereal aisle for Jughead.” 

“Oh, um,” she glances sidelong at Jughead who can’t bring himself to meet her eye just yet. “No, coffee is okay for now, but thank you. I should probably get going soon, I want to go with my parents to pick my sister and her family up from the airport.” 

“Of course. Take your time, but don’t feel like you need to wait for Gladys to get up. She’s pretty slow on her days off.” 

Betty nods her okay and falls silent again. Jughead can feel JB boring a hole in into his head with her confused stare and he itches to get out of this awkwardness. 

“Betts, I can put your stuff in the car. Just so you’re set whenever you’re ready.” 

His palms are sweaty, even though he’s never been a nervous sweater. He’s also never almost kissed his closest friend, so there’s a first time for everything he supposes. 

Both he and Betty know there is only her backpack and purse to grab, something she could easily manage on her own, but she says nothing—presumably not to make things even worse than they currently are. At the foot of the stairs, he briefly considers walking outside and laying down in front of a snowplow. That might be less painful. 

Soon enough, a more-awake JB is hugging Betty goodbye and Betty is thanking Jeff for the hospitality. “Walk me out?” She directs this in a quiet voice to him and his palms begin to sweat again. 

This is the speech where she lets him down easy (easy for her, excruciating for him), explains away the intensity of the morning, gives him a polite Merry Christmas and See You On The Drive Back Next Semester. He braces himself for it, but the blow never comes. 

“Jug,” she sighs, leaning up against her open driver’s seat door. 

He cringes. 

Whatever she is about to say, she must change her mind, because her expression falters and settles into something neutral, something assessing. 

“Merry Christmas, Juggie.” All of the sudden Betty is close to him again, but it is only to press a frustratingly chaste kiss to his cheek. The soft stickiness of her lip balm hits the far corner of his mouth and all too soon, she is sliding into the front seat and shifting the car into gear. Betty is gone and all Jughead is left with is the faint scent of what must be her hair product or lotion, clinging to his body and his bed. 

  
  
  
  


This might be his worst Christmas yet, vying for top spot against the one when they still lived in the trailer park and the power shut off halfway through The Muppet Christmas Carol. FP had forgotten to pay the electric bill, but both his parents were at the bar, even though at that point Gladys probably knew she was pregnant with Jellybean. His present that year was clearly from the charity drive and he remembers sulking about it. 

They are all miles beyond that shitty Christmas spectacular, all of them better people (some by wider margins than others), but Jughead sulks all the same. 

He wonders what that sad little kid would say to him if he could tell him that the saddest adult Christmas to have is a missed opportunity. 

Kid-Jughead would probably just be thrilled to know he made it to adulthood. 

He is otherwise grateful for the holiday; they are with the Andrews as usual, this year joined by Jeff and by Fred’s new girlfriend, and Fred lets him and Archie split a six-pack, even though Archie won’t be 21 for another two months. Having his friend back after so long is a weight off his chest he hadn’t known was there and Jughead manages to stave off the Betty-related weight for most of the day. It works until Archie pauses their video game—warning both him and JB not to mess with his controller—to answer a call from Veronica. 

Archie’s cheerful _Merry Christmas honey_ echoes in his ears and Jughead lets his body go slack, sliding from the couch to the floor so he can drown in his misery and stare at the ceiling. 

“You’re very annoying without your girlfriend,” JB tosses out blithely from where she texts on the couch. 

That catches Archie’s attention, who holds the phone away from his mouth to whisper, “Jughead’s _what?”_

“Shut up.” He tells them both but only Archie listens, even though his friend’s eyebrows remain raised. 

“Just call her!” JB keeps chirping on and Jughead tunes her out to wonder how Betty’s Christmas is going, if she’s wearing her penguin shorts again, whether she is also replaying their half day of faux-bliss in her head simply to torture herself. He supposes there is no harm in at least _texting_ her to wish her a merry Christmas, maybe try to regain some semblance of their prior relationship. Jughead tunes back in sharply when he hears his sister say, “Fine I’ll call her myself,” but not with enough time to scramble across the sectional and yank the phone from her hand before the dial tone of a video call mingles with Archie’s conversation. 

“JB, hang up the fucking phone right now.” She throws him a look, one that tells him he has no say in the matter and also that he’s verifiable. 

He hears the startled _Oh, hi JB, merry Christmas!_ and realizes two things: one, JB used his phone to video chat Betty, and two, that Betty willingly answered, thinking it would be him. 

Betty’s voice is hushed and tinny over the phone speaker, which he comes to see is because she has a sleeping infant propped on one shoulder. Sheepishly, he edges into frame and waves, mouthing a _sorry!_ to her while hoping his hair doesn’t look as greasy and unwashed as he knows it is. 

“Jel, come on, don’t bother her when she’s with her family. She’s literally got a sleeping kid in her arms.” JB continues to ignore him, but now Archie is paying attention—out of frame from the camera, his jaw is agape glancing between Betty’s face on the phone and Jughead’s pained expression. 

_What the fuck,_ he mouths. 

Torn between wanting to murder both his sister and Archie, and wanting to talk to Betty, Jughead throws caution to the wind and plucks his phone out of JB’s hand. 

“Hey, Betts, gimme one sec.” He’s whispering, scared to burst the bubble or wake the baby, voice low enough that he can also hear Archie’s harried conversation with Veronica. With one fierce kick to the shin, he regains his friend’s attention. “Say anything to her and you will never see your guitar again.” The threat is empty because there is no possible way Archie hadn’t already relayed these events, nor that Veronica hadn’t heard about this from Betty, but Jughead feels manic in his need to maintain control over this. 

Finally, he ducks into the laundry room and shuts the door. He fights the urge to knock his head sharply against the wall. 

“Hi there.” Betty sounds bemused and when he can bear to look at the phone again, she is swaying gently to cradle the baby in her arms. “Junie has decided that I am the only one she won’t scream at today, so I’m on auntie duty.” 

Too many emotions fight their way up his throat, each as unbearable as the next to keep at bay. 

She looks so beautiful: her hair is swept to one side in a braid that Junie holds loosely in her tiny fist, her lips are a shiny and tempting berry color, and she wears a navy sweater with sequined snowflakes embroidered across it. Jughead can’t believe he was planning to continue his avoidance of her. 

Again, they must be sharing thoughts. “I hope you didn’t think I was avoiding you, Jug. It was chaos the second I got home.” 

“I didn’t think you were.” 

If it were anybody else, Jughead might think this was a pointed comment in regard to his own radio silence. But because it’s Betty, he knows that she is genuinely worried that he has taken her lack of text as offense. 

_You asshole,_ he berates himself. _You absolute idiotic asshole._

“Listen, I should probably get back. Junie will need to eat once she wakes up and I’m losing feeling in this arm.” Her small laugh is genuine, albeit strained. 

Jughead grinds his teeth. “Yeah, okay. Listen, um…” Betty looks up with something akin to hope, which Jughead cannot fathom as any kind of response to him. Nevertheless, he charges on. “Can we—let’s um. Let’s talk soon? About—about stuff.” 

“ _Stuff_ ,” Betty repeats, drawing out the word. 

He is a writer. He is a _fucking writer_ and all he can manage is ‘stuff’ and ‘um.’ 

She takes pity, because she’s Betty and of course she does. “Sure, Juggie.” 

Nodding, he swallows and desperately tries not to sink to the floor in relief. “Okay. Yeah, okay. Well, uh, merry Christmas, Betts.” 

Within a millisecond of him ending the call, Archie bursts through the door. “Dude, what the _fuck_ did you do _?”_

  
  
  
  


Archie’s interrogation gets interrupted by Fred announcing dessert, so Jughead is able to collect his thoughts for a precious half hour while wolfing down pie. JB is eyeing him carefully now, too, so there is a solid chance that Archie’s reaction tipped her off. 

He wants another beer. Or more pie. Or both. 

Goodnights drag out the inevitable—Jughead had already intended to stay over—and once Fred manhandles him out of helping with dishes, he is in a full-blown sweat. Archie swipes another few beers from the fridge, Jughead grabs the platter of cookies and the half-empty pie tin, and they return to the den. 

Archie levels him with a look. “Start talking.” 

So, he does. 

Sharing is not Jughead’s default. Most, if not all, aspects of his personal life and emotions are kept close to the vest; if nobody knows anything, he cannot be hurt when they stop caring. Over the years, being friends with Archie has worn him down slightly. It would be hard not to acquire some emotional competency when one’s best friend has the loyalty and genuine excitability of a labrador, nor when said best friend is a serial monogamist who falls in love at the drop of a hat and has been doing so since the fourth grade. 

(Ginger Lopez was that first tumultuous relationship. She kissed Archie on the playground after school one day and they ate lunch together every day for two weeks and held hands at recess. Archie broke it off when Ginger was part of a group that made fun of Jughead’s well-worn beanie and too-short pants. Jughead eventually outgrew his need to wear a security blanket on his head but never shed his playground bond with Archie.) 

Once he finishes showing Archie the depths of the hole he’s dug for himself, complete with the moment he and Betty may or may not have had in bed the other morning, Jughead picks up the pecan-cranberry pie and shovels forkfuls into his mouth while his friend looks on bewildered. 

“Pie?” He mumbles the offer, knowing both that Archie isn’t going to take the pie and that he isn’t willing to share. Two days ago, Betty pretended to be his girlfriend and they nearly kissed. Today, it appears that what seemed like a favor to _him_ may have been for their mutual benefit. 

Jughead is keeping the damn pie to himself. 

“Jug, you are such a dumbass.” Coming from Archie, Jughead thinks he should be mildly offended. Then again, for their entire lives, Archie has been the one better versed in matters of the heart so he may have a point. 

“I know,” he hangs his head in misery. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

“No, Jug,” Archie rolls his eyes and removes the pie tin from his hands. “You’re a dumbass because that _moment_ you had was more than just a moment. That was Betty making a move. On you.” 

“Her phone rang! What was I supposed to do?” 

“You were supposed to recreate the moment before she left, not flee the scene and rush her out the door. Clearly she also has feelings for you.” 

It seems so simple when Archie puts it like that, and Jughead wishes he were not so prone to tripping over his own feet that he could lean into such simplicity. He also wishes he had paid more attention to his time with Betty over the recent months, because then he may have found other moments like those much sooner than when she was play-acting his girlfriend. 

He has wanted to kiss her for nearly as long as he has known her. If it turns out that he could have spent less time hating himself for wanting her, more time aware that maybe she wanted him right back, Jughead may launch himself into a snowbank and die there. 

He stares at the floor, willing it to open up and swallow him whole. 

“You have to call her back, Jug.” 

“And say what?” 

That stumps him. “I dunno,” Archie shrugs. “You’re the one who’s good with words. You’ll figure it out.” 

Yes, he of such romantic eloquence as ‘we should talk about stuff’ should be left to his own devices. That could not possibly go wrong. To his credit, Archie does his best to assuage his fears. 

“If she likes you as much as I think she does—and I think she _does_ so don’t start that spiral—I don’t think it matters what you say. As long as you say something.” With that, Archie picks up the pie for himself and takes a large bite. “More xbox?” he asks, mumbling around the fork. 

Jughead loses spectacularly because he cannot focus on the game, not when this life-changing revelation has been dropped in his lap. Words fail him. 

They fail him so much that he gives up pretense altogether, pauses the game, and returns to the laundry room with his phone. 

It’s late now, late enough that Jughead is not surprised when Betty doesn’t pick up. The disappointment stings but he sends a text immediately after, before he loses his nerve. 

**_I really want to talk more but this feels like a face to face thing. How do you feel about grand romantic gestures?_ **

Jughead has to wait 13 excruciating minutes before the three dots appear, taunting him with the indication Betty is typing something back. 

**_I feel great about them. But it’s late and I also feel too impatient to wait for you to make it all the way here. There’s a diner called Pop’s just off the highway about halfway between us. Meet me there for breakfast?_ **

  
  
  


40 minutes before their pre-arranged time, Jughead is slouched in a booth drinking coffee and debating if he wants french fries this early in the morning. Everything in the diner smells amazing and each plate of food coming out of the kitchen is mouth-watering.

He couldn’t sleep and figured that Betty, in her neverending perfectionist tendencies, would also be there early. 

It’s immensely satisfying to be right about this—about _her_ —when the familiar station wagon pulls into the parking lot less than 10 minutes later. He leaves his jacket on the seat as a gesture that he isn’t dining and dashing (he really does want those fries), then Jughead leaps up and pushes through the door. 

He is met with a brutal gust of wind that has him regretting the lack of coat, but it is more than worth the smile he gets when Betty opens her car door and he’s right there. He offers a useless hand to help her out, but she takes it anyway. Her gloves are warm on his cold fingers and it’s enough to warm his whole body. 

“Hey,” he says softly. 

“Hey, yourself.” 

They watch each closely for a heated moment and then Jughead surges forward to cup her face in his hands and kiss her. Betty sinks back against the car, pulling him with her, and sighs into his mouth. When he pulls back slightly to gauge her reaction, her eyes are still closed and a soft smile plays across her face. 

“I’ve been waiting to do that forever,” Jughead admits. 

Betty’s eyes are bright when they open. “Yeah, me too.” She chews on her lip, suddenly shy, and he uses the hand still on her face to release it gently. 

He thumbs her lip, soothing the nervous mark. “We’re both pretty unobservant, huh?” 

“Disastrously so.” 

Glowing in the warmth of this bubble they’ve created for themselves, Jughead presses her back against the car. His lips replace his thumb and it takes a few beats for them to stop smiling so much that it breaks the kiss. 

Eventually they get their bearings, mouths moving against each other and arms tight in their embrace. By the time they make it inside, Jughead’s coffee has long since gone cold. 

.

.

.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for joining me on this festive little ride! please leave some love below if you feel so inclined!


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